Fairytale
by Senzafine
Summary: He loved her, but never spoke of his love. When she rode to war, he rode also, and gave her hand to a man willingly. But all did not end there. The story of Eowyn and Merry re-invented.
1. Part One: Small

Fairy-tale  
  
Part One: Small  
  
He watched her ever chance he got, stealing glances at her from the fireside and the hearth. She was so beautiful, a gentle grace that made him think of a future that laid outside the Shire, away from his family and all he knew. He wanted to ride a horse, and take her in his arms, riding as fast as he could into the sun. There was nothing that he would not forsake if his path would, and it should, be intertwined with her own. He wanted to ride with her away from this darkness, from the halls that confided her, and made her cry into her pillow late at night, as if stealing her tears from the low hanging sickle moon.  
  
But he couldn't ride a horse. He wasn't tall enough. And he couldn't take her in his arms - it would be the other way around. It because of this that he hid his feelings, though there were times where he felt that his very heart would burst if he did not say even one of the tender words he uttered in secret.   
  
She glanced at him, today, before dinner broke, and covered his hand with her own. In that glance, he saw everything dash away and crumble into emptiness. There was nothing in her save the love of a brother, of a friend.  
  
And he began to despair. Another has claimed her heart. That was not what plagued him. It was just knowing that she could never declare her love for Aragon that tore his heart not into two, but into a million pieces.   
  
Even if they did not share a love, they shared the same bitterness. The same pain. And the same longing.  
  
===  
  
She thought oft of him when the night was low. Where would his horse be now? - a good twenty days have passed since the Company left the palace. She swore she heard a fair Elvish song being echoed from some far away place. She asked Legolas to sing every night that the Company was good, and her Lord in fair spirits. But she knew that the songs, though tiny, though so faint, were nothing more but her own imagining.   
  
She would have despaired if not for her fair and high spirited companion. He, above all else and everyone else, managed to stay by her side and keep her smiling, thought there was days where she woke up cursing the sun and have all but any will to keep on living. Just one day became to her a trail of countless obstacles, all wrought with the same constant desire followed by a glance faraway to the east.  
  
Often, Merry brought her flowers. How the blessed spite found such beautiful flowers, and the hikes and ventures he must have endured to bring her such blossoms were a gentle joy to her worrying self. She wanted to ask him how he managed to find them in such wildness but the pride in his eyes when he presented each blossom to her answered all her questions.  
  
Merry was the only thing in this palace of stone and cold wind that smiled as beautifully as the flowers that now adorned her room. He would tell her stories of Aragon, and of Legolas, Gimli, and Gandalf. He never mentioned Pippin, and she never asked for she knew the pain he must have felt being so far away from such a dear deep friend.  
  
Because the moment that Merry left these halls, she would feel the same despair.  
  
===  
  
"Do you know that I can handle a boat, my lady?"  
"Can you now? I thought Hobbits were always surrounded by land, good and farmed under skillful hands. I never heard of Hobbit village near the lake, or the river."  
  
"My lady, I think you haven't heard of a Hobbit, let alone a Hobbit village before you meet me, isn't that right? And I'm sorry to say, but we Hobbits take to water quite easily. Save a few, like Sam."  
"Well, if you can handle a boat, then a horse should be of little difficultly, Master of All That Can Be Eaten."  
  
"Why would you say that, Lady of the Winds that Chill This Hobbit's Feet?"  
"Merry, you know I owe much to you. Every day, I know how you worry about me. I see it in your eyes. It'll be useless to say that you do not have to worry. But I want to repay you. Let me teach you to ride a horse."  
  
"Of course my lady."  
  
===  
  
It was a late afternoon, and a lazy one at that. The sun shone lazily, her rays flirting between orange and gentle red. A light mist rose from the mountains to the east, and all that stirred in the great plain were passing birds - and Eowyn, Merry and a horse that reared its golden head every so often.   
  
Merry blushed as Eowyn wrapped a strong hand around his waist and helped him sit upon the horse's back. The stirrups and the seat was adjusted to fit his small frame and Eowyn's hand was steady when she handed him the reins.  
  
"Steady, steady. Let the horse know whose the rider, but do not make the horse hate you. When the horse takes off, you'll most likely be thrown by the rather abruptness of her long strides. Let the horse run upon her free will, just for a moment and then begin to led. Her name is Astrid. She is gentle, but free spirited, like you, Master Merry."  
  
Merry smiled to hear such a compliment from her mouth and he lowered his head in shyness. He rubbed the back of his head with one hand, but he accidently squeezed his feet together a bit too strongly and Astrid was off, galloping across the plain with much speed.  
  
- How can Aragon and Legolas make this look like fun? -  
  
Merry held on for as long as he could, and leaned forward, trying to keep the hairs of her mane out of his eyes. The whole world was rocking, and the sounds of her hooves sounded far too much like thunder for his comfort. And, he paled when thinking this, Eowyn was watching him. That made everything even more bitter.  
  
- What's left now is for me to black out and have the horse run over me. At least that way, I can be spared any further embarrassment. -  
  
That didn't happen. What did happen was Astrid ran straight for the edge of a forest and someone let out a mighty yell. The horse reared and Merry fell upon the plains, his head striking rock.  
  
"Merry!"   
  
===  
  
The first time he kissed her was during the first night of the second month, the night of the full moon. It happened quite by accident, however. because he would have never have been up so late if he haven't dreamt of Pip. It was a sad dream, as many of the dreams that occur between two deep friends, and Merry never once found the right words to describe it.   
  
He couldn't sleep that night, alone in a great chamber of stone and linen. He missed his feather pillow and his bed covered with fresh smelling cotton. His father must have been waiting for him to return, or else, waiting by the Old Took's house. Ever since they could walk, Pippin and Merry was always seen together, making some unhappy hobbit happy, or just making themselves happy. Merry put on his shirt, his shoes and fastened his cloak, thinking about Pippin all the while.  
  
This King's halls were so beautiful, filled with wonders and splendors hiding just behind every closed but unlocked door. The air of welcome and benevolence never lingered, never died down to cold hostility - it was in this aura of kindness that Merry spent many lonely hours in. There were guards and visitors always in the halls, singing and talking, but Merry missed his friends. Even if he caught but a glimpse of Gimli, or Legolas, he would be happy. If he saw Pippin even for a half a second's glance, he could sleep easy. But he saw no one, and the sleepless nights continued.  
  
Anyway, that night, of the second month during the full moon, Merry walked through the halls of the King, trying to remember which door held the painted scrolls. He wanted to write a letter to Frodo describing to him one scroll in particular, a scroll of a lovely maiden asleep in the valley surrounded by rowan trees, before his loneliness made him forget to do so. He walked past a door that was slightly ajar, and from that slight crack, a light broke free.  
  
Merry, mostly responding to his lonely heart then his curiosity, peered into the room only to find the painted scroll he was searching for, now free from illusion and dream and place into reality. The maiden with long flowing hair, curling around her shoulders, surrounded not by trees, but by the silks and furs of a kingly bed. Her lips open, as if seeking an answer from the moon and the stars, her hands held lightly over her heart. Who is she waiting for? A man - Merry's eyes widen with unexplainable pain as he dared inched closer to the sleeping maiden. A man who will free her.  
  
He inched closer to her, but not too near, in fear that what he thought was reality was only illusion sparked by fire smoke, the moon would disappear behind the clouds, and the maiden would vanish. He let his hand gather a strand of her hair, and held it to the silver light. The moon grew jealous, blighted at the sight of such gold upon the head of such a fair face, but he felt only love, gentle and warm.  
  
He dared not breathe as he leaned over her face, gently brushing aside the tresses that clung to the side of her face. The fire of the torches seemed to dim, bowing their heads in acceptance of a heart the beat more strongly then the flames burned. To this, Merry suddenly felt a slight tremor of happiness that Pippin was not here to share in such beauty, as fair and new as the spring sun upon snow. Breathe in the illusion, close thy eyes, breathe and be one, this fair illusion is yours - the world seemed to tip forward in happiness when Merry perched himself on the side of the maiden's bed and lower his lips to hers.  
  
The touch of such flesh so stolen on a night that was both cold and not so made his mind forget all else. Stone and linen could bound his soil loving hands, for now, his heart was bound to the maiden. Sleep forever, just like this. Merry let his hands slide themselves down to touch, barely touch, barely stroking the base of her white throat and was startled to find her breathing. To him, she was too prefect to be real.  
  
He kissed her again and felt his heart rising to his throat. He belonged to her, there was nothing left fo him anywhere. The trees, the rivers, the land he loved they did not mean anything because they did not hide so beautiful a secret as this sleeping maiden. Merry kissed the base of her throat, letting the pulse of her breathing throw him into a state of near happiness. She was real. She was right here.  
  
But she would never be his.  
Merry knew this when he had to jump to lower himself from her bedside. He was too small for so valiant and so strong a lady. The white tree that supported Rohan, like the trees of Lothlorien, strong against the wind and bearing leaves of gold, would never accept so humble a stone.   
  
Merry knew this but he could not wipe away from his mind the image of the sleeping maiden, beautiful even in her sleep of longing and worry, and the few stolen kisses that took his very heart and breath away.   
  
Merry knew all this but he could not stop himself from loving her.  
  
===  
  
"Merry?"  
"My lady?"  
  
"Never give me such a fright again!"  
"What do you mean, my lady?"  
  
"Your hands grew cold, your head and your cheeks. I feared that I shall no longer have any flowers to wake up to - or any friend to call my own."  
"It will never happen. I will never leave you when you are like this."  
  
"So alone - and so in need of support."  
"Merry -"  
  
"I am a stone. Lean on me -  
I will not break or tremble."  
=== 


	2. Part Two: charm

Part Two: Charm  
  
Long blonde hair. Hair as soft as light, golden like the sun. Skin fair. Skin white, like snow. Fingers gently lowered themselves to caress the edge of her throat, the gentle beating of her heart rising like the steady beats of a drum. Eyes blue, blue like the sky outside, as bright and as wild, telling tales of a place beyond infinity.   
  
A woman. Fingers lower to the soft curves of her breast. Round and soft, seeming made of the flowers that bloomed each and every summer. A heart that needed to be loved. Fingers rose to untie the strings of her bodice. The pedant given from her mother gleamed in the light of sun and candle. A woman gave her a silver and sapphire pendant shaped like a woman dancing in pleasure. Or in pain. She was in pain now.  
  
A woman. Fingers dropped to her side and reached for the comb. A fine comb, wrought with gold, shaped like a horse, mane flying in the invisible wind. She wanted to fly away now, ride away with hooves pounding the earth in assurance and in pride as fingers tugged the comb through the waves of her golden hair. Her heart was pounding. Her bodice pulsed with the heaving of her heart. A woman she was. A woman who dreamt of swords.  
  
On the dresser laid a sword that belonged to her father, given to her by her brother. She wanted to kiss away her sorrow with blood spit by her own valor. She would never receive a kiss quite like that. She stood, as fingers let the comb fall with a loud clamor to the floor, and grasp a fistful of hair in vanity. Do not cut herself, cut off her hair. Cut it off and lose the beauty that made her feel so weak. She was a woman who dreamt of swords.  
  
Skin fair. Skin white, like snow. Mind in despair, wild with passion. She stared hard at the pendant gleaming between her breasts, reflecting the light that streamed from the window hung with silk. The woman was dancing in pain. She was in pain too. That pain made the woman look strong, invincible. She was too. But inside, she dreamt of swords and the man that would free her from her bonds.  
  
Fingers let the hair go, and eyes, as blue as the sky, watched as the hair clung to the sides of her white throat. Her heart was pounding so steadily, she felt as if she would swoon in joy, joy as strong and solid as the white linen that hugged and restrained her lithe body. She could fight. She had fought to stop her love. But she lost and here she was now. Fingers worked themselves to loosen the folds her dress. Of the finest linen, with the deft of all hands, the dress crumpled to the floor as she stood in front of the mirror.  
  
She was like a mountain, encased in snow. Her fear and her strength hide the inside of her, the woman who wanted so much to learn the ways of real joy. What made her smile now were just illusions conjured to ease her grieving heart. Fingers gently pushed aside the strands of her long hair. Just like this, her dreams would come true.  
  
The sword laid on the counter, besides roses as red as her open mouth. She crossed the floor and entered into the awaiting bath, that smelled like sage and herbs. Fingers worked to grasp her shoulders and she cried. She cried as the steam rose out from the windows and the sun hid itself in the clouds.  
  
Eowyn, Shield-maiden of Rohan, alone without servant and without friend, took her last bath flavored with the leaves of her home. She will ride alone, and to seek her own joy. She would leave tonight.  
  
And to that she cried, all alone, in a room of stone and silk.   
  
But her cries were heard by Meriadoc Brandybuck o f the Shire, who, when passing by the baths with arms piled high with clean shirts, was drawn in by the weight of his own love and her sorrow. Kneeling there by the door, his face flushed with the imagined beauty of such a grieving maiden, Merry closed his eyes and swore wherever she would ride, he would follow, even on foot.  
  
Eowyn, sister-daughter of the King of the Golden Hall, hugged herself, rocking with joy, sadness and doubt as Merry knelt to an imaginary sword that declared him her knight.  
  
The roses on the counter let out a scent of fantasy and passion and outside, the world passed them by.  
  
===  
  
"If you do not let me go, I'll follow you."  
  
"No, Merry."  
  
"You cannot go by yourself!"  
  
"I lived this whole life by myself."  
  
  
  
"Not anymore, my lady. Not while I'm here."  
  
"You cannot go!"  
  
"I will. I can. And I am."  
  
===  
  
The first time she ever picked up sword was when war broke out in the eastern lands. She was naught but past her sixteenth year and have begun the rites of womanhood. A communal bath with the other ladies of her family on the night of the twelfth moon, an ancient pagan tradition descended from the First Age, the wearing a corset, softest leather and etched in the duel horses of her family's crest, underneath her dresses of silk and linen and worse still, serving wine to those who dined at the Golden Hall.   
  
Her cousin, Wynderil from the western farthing, was the same age as she, and wore the bonds of womanhood with a head held high. Raven black tresses laced with silver and sapphires, and the blue eyes of the family, Wynderil was admired by the same men who spoke to Eowyn about battles lost, and great military plans. The men dare not touch either Wynderil and Eowyn within the presence of Theoden, but their eyes spoke loud enough words. So loud that Eowyn retreated to hr dark corner, quite abashed and hand fastened tightly to the wine urn. Her fingers turned white, gathering blood at their tips and Eowyn thought vainly back to the days before she was deemed a woman and forced to grow her curls past her shoulders. She watched Wynderil accept gifts of grapes and fine bread, cooked with sugar and dusted with honey, and averted her eyes when Wynderil learned to hold out her hand and accept kisses.  
  
From the same dark corner, she watched Wynderil wed one of the men with wolf eyes and saw her grow full bellied, like a secret world that Wynderil became the goddess of, a world Eowyn watched with too awkward elbows and too long arms, an outcast even before she entered.  
  
She picked up a sword when Wynderil learned to sew, two sharp edges cutting their own desires into solid reality. Eowyn removed her corset of leather and lace and don tunics of deerskin when hunting, running and breathing as Wynderil embroidered the crest of her husband's family upon robes and robes of velvet, never ending. When darkness fell, they would gather in front of the fire and speak, each telling the other stories, both never really listening.  
  
Eowyn was present, by tradition, on the night of Wynderil's birthing and trembled at the sight of so much blood. She was a hunter, yes, but the blood and pain bore by her cousin was a pain she did not desire to experience ever. The following night, Eowyn went hunting, alone, with an empty quiver and a dull spear. She could not remove the memory of white sheets stained in blood from her mind.   
  
===  
  
"Can you shoot?"  
  
"Shoot what?"  
  
"I kid you, My Lady. I have quite good an eye and precision as well."  
  
"What kind of bow? There's only a longbow, I fear, and that is a tricky thing to master. Can you see the Elvish script? A gift from Rivendell, to my father."  
  
"It says, Made in Hobbiton, I fear, My Lady."  
  
"Master Merry!"  
  
"Rocks."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I can shoot rocks."  
  
===  
  
He thought oft of his father when nights were long. His father used to have the biggest ponies of all Hobbiton, half wild some say, as they pranced and neighed across the fields well past dusk. Pippin used to gather apples and honeycomb on the way back from his grandmother's, Lady Took, who by particularity, lived at the edge of the forest. After Merry finished helping his father comb and feed the ponies, Pippin and he would sit on a hill overlooking the rivers that kissed the edges of the Shire, and dream big. Silly little dreams, Merry knew even back then, that would never happen.   
  
He oft thought back to the first time Pippin talked about Elves, those that lived wild and beautiful all at once in the deep and dank of Mirkwood. Merry remembered Bilbo's stories too, he remembered the fireside stories, the deep mull wine and sugared pears. But unlike Pippin, he knew Elves would never come riding out of the woods, just to say Hello, how do you do? to hobbits such as themselves. But Pippin never stopped believing.  
  
"One day, you'll see. We hobbits are a very respectable people. Why shouldn't those Elves want to meet us?"  
  
"Pip, don't you remember what my Old Pop said? We hobbits are a very respectable people, but it's best we leave everything that's right in the world alone."  
  
"Why, Merry, don't you want an adventure? Even if it means stirrin' up something?"  
  
"No, Pip, it'll be best for us hobbits to just stay grounded. Like where we live. Near the earth, and everything's that good and green."  
  
"I'm going to breathe some different air. Get my head filled with other songs."  
  
"And you'll come back, Pip, and wish everyplace was like this place."  
  
He didn't know back then, but he knew now, how right Pippin was. If he could, he would take back those words and fill Pippin's head some more with thoughts as light as the shimmering sun upon mountain lakes and as free as birds flying over the hills, to the west.   
  
When everything was accounted for, and taken care of, he'll bring back to Hobbiton a real horse and let his father ride wild. He will lite some fire in his father, and himself, and breathe in the air. He'll take Legolas and make him eat dinner at all the family's, all of Hobbiton, and show everyone the worth of Pippin's nonsense, that when released, danced in the twilight and shone like a star until it became sweet reality.  
  
===  
  
"Merry, you're riding to your death when you ride with me."  
  
"Yes, my lady."  
  
"I do not think anyone will sing songs about us, or weave tales of about our battles. We will be just faceless soldiers."  
  
"I never liked war stories anyway."  
  
"There will be no glory, no legends of our deeds. The memories of our fights will be buried on the battleground."  
  
"There is some glory, my lady."  
  
"There is?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"A woman and a hobbit ride to their silly dreams, to die under the inescapable bow of destiny."  
  
"Two good people ride to protect their world, to breathe in the scent of victory and joy."  
  
"What if there is no victory, no joy? Just loss, shadow and pain."  
  
"We're victorious already, my lady."  
  
"Merry."  
  
"My lady."  
  
===  
  
She wanted to ask him why he would risk the scent and sweat of life to ride into battle with her. Two crows, in leather armor that were too loose around the waist, too large around the arms, disguising themselves as eagles. Whenever her fingers encircled the tip of her sword, they trembled, and her breaths grew wild, something fanatic and crazy rising from the depths of her heart to beat itself against the base of her throat.   
  
But when she opened her mouth to speak, his eyes would be on hers and his mouth open. If she left him, the stones would cave in, the emptiness tearing himself apart.   
  
She held his hand as they walked to her horse, laden with packages, and the necessaries of war. His hand was small in stature, like a child's, but she could feel the vitality of life that flowed, pulsed from his tiny palm. It was warm, comforting to be holding onto a warm hand on so cold a night.  
  
===  
  
"Whatever happens, stay close to me."  
  
"I will, my lady." 


	3. part Three: Poison

Part Three: Poison   
  
Reflection 1: Merry  
  
If you took the good land out of his bones, he will be nothing but skin flapping hungrily in the wind, searching in the raindrops for dirt, something good and earthy and grass, oh green grass. If you dipped his clothes in gold and weave robes of silk to place on he squat shoulders, he will only think of his mother's fine cotton, fed with sage and thistle so his vest smelled like the green place he came from. If you marred his face and tore off his particularly shaped nose, rubbed in some oil, make him a finer version of his homely self, you will not get as far as the tip of his forehead. He is the son of the earth, they all were. He missed the land that was tame and gentle in his hands, the fields sown with seeds, promising good food when the summer wind cease to blow and autumn descend like a goddess from the sky.   
  
When they rode through bare fields of brown grass, she breathed in deeply, a warrior of her world. He shuddered and drew the edges of his cloak closer to his body. Will he ever see the chimney smoke of his father's smokehouse, fireflies swirling in soft pale light as the moon sun out lullabies, and children played in the stream, frolicking like he used to with a garland of wild leaves atop his head?   
  
No.  
  
The answer came to him as swiftly as the sound of thunder striking the static night air. The great silence before the world exhales and changes everything with one mighty breath.   
  
"Merry, that clearing, over there! We will set up camp for tonight!"  
  
When she touched his shoulder in passing, he knew he was doomed. He will never belong anywhere, anymore, unless each night was like this. Huddled over a dying fire in the slick and chill of rain and her hand, blessed touch, upon his wrist.   
  
He will never belong anywhere, anymore. She has already stole the earth that steeped into his bones and the rivers running through his veins, until all he could see was her, clad in iron and hiding a dress of white linen. Blonde hair, winter blue eyes. He could see nothing else.   
  
Reflection 2: Eowyn  
  
When Mother died, I told myself I will take up her call. I will be Father's little girl and comb my hair every day, a thousand times till it shone and I will bring flowers to the table. I will ease Brother's sore shoulders and learn to cook. When I looked in the mirror, eyes half wild like a crazed thing trapped in its own skin, I told myself I will take Mother's place. There was no other choice for me.  
  
But when Father died, it broke. The mirror and the silver, ripped silk, lace soaking up spilled wine. I did not know how to breathe. Brother knew nothing else but horses and swords, arrows and warfare.  
  
He brought me everywhere he went, during the first year of Father's death. He did not have the heart to leave me alone where sorrow can crept in and cut away the layer of resilience I pretended to have. A place where bitterness would tear apart my fragile, half beating, half dying heart.  
  
When I picked up a sword, I felt Father's breath upon my skin and Mother's laugh circling my head like a halo. I felt alive. No longer alone.  
  
Never alone. 


End file.
